


We'll Try Again in the Morning

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Lucifer's Cage Sam Winchester, Post-Soulless Sam, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23367160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: Post hell, post soulless Sam. Sam isn't doing well and Dean is trying his best to remember how to be a big brother.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 22
Kudos: 150





	We'll Try Again in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to post something comforting during quarantine, and this is what my brain mustered up.
> 
> <3

Sam was different now.

It was to be expected, obviously, after going to hell, coming back and realizing you were parading around soulless, and learning there was a thin wall in place holding back all that graphic hell trauma.

But still.

Dean wasn’t worried, he was just…

Fuck. So he was worried.

When the world was going to hell in a handbasket, it was easy to turn inward, to ignore others’ pain, to blame people.

Blame Sam.

And Sam seemed so different, so dark, and he didn’t share anything with Dean. He was closed off.

Their relationship crumbled slowly in silence.

It took the year Dean grieved Sam’s fall into the pit for him to process his place in all of that. That Sammy wasn’t quiet because he was casually becoming an evil asshole, that he wasn’t some selfish idiot that started the apocalypse all by himself.

He’d been used as a scapegoat to channel fear into anger.

Even by Dean.

So, soulless Sam was easy to deal with. There was more silence, more stoicism, Dean thought maybe Sam was just like this now. He’d thought some other things, too.

Dean didn’t have to broach any sensitive subjects, reveal any of his inner demons, or, god forbid, talk about his emotions.

Now that Sam was back--really back--things weren’t going at all how Dean expected.

But it was what Dean remembered.

Dean remembered a bright, passionate Sam, who would give driven speeches with so much of his heart that his voice became a thin croak.

He remembered a Sam who was crushed by every loss, blamed himself for every mistake, and tried to help as many people as possible.

He remembered a Sam who pried and pried and pried at all of Dean’s weak spots, trying to get him to open up, to share the burden. Pleading with watery puppy eyes.

That was a long time ago. Sam had moppy hair and some lingering teenage lank.

Sam looked a lot different now--older, taller, underweight and gaunt, with long, lackluster hair to his shoulders.

But he was Sammy again.

He had emotions.

And he was feeling them like crazy.

And Dean had spent so long repressing literally everything ever that he’d completely forgotten how to help him, how to be an older brother, how to listen.

He couldn’t get himself to say what he felt to Sam, and he couldn’t get himself to help Sam, either.

In simpler words: he was an asshole.

He was trying not to be.

The whole thing about this horrible mess was that it taught Dean in no uncertain terms that there was only one truth in this world, and only one thing that mattered:

Dean loved Sam.

He just wished he knew how to turn that into something real.

He was staring up at the ceiling of their motel room in the dark. He knew without looking that it was almost 4 in the morning. He’d have to get up to pee soon-ish.

Every night was like this. Dean laid there, unable to sleep, thinking himself in circles about Lucifer and the apocalypse and hell and the cage and Sam and Sam and Sam.

He was swirling ever closer to the drain, craving a beer something strong, when a wet sniffle startled him badly enough to make him jolt in place.

He froze, his heart calming down when he recognized Sam’s silhouette standing up from the other bed.

The sniffles got louder and wetter and Dean kept still, unsure of what to do.

Dean’s mattress sunk with the weight of Sam crawling onto it. Without thinking, Dean lifted up the sheets and Sam crawled inside, collapsing onto the mattress and making the springs squeak.

Dean was quiet as Sam pushed his way into Dean’s space and buried his face in Dean’s collar. Dean felt the material of his shirt go damp with Sam’s tears.

“Sorry,” Sam croaked, voice muffled by the TMNT shirt Dean was wearing.

“It’s okay,” Dean responded automatically, a hand coming up and lightly touching at Sam’s back. He hadn’t done this in so long that he’d forgotten how to.

Sam moved away, wiping at his face with the back of his hand like a child. “No, I’m fine. Sorry.”

Before Sam could leave, Dean wrapped his arm around Sam more tightly, pushing Sam back into his space. He rubbed his hand up and down Sam’s back until Sam relaxed marginally.

“It’s really okay,” Dean said. He cleared his throat. “I know… I know you haven’t been doin’ great.”

It felt inadequate. Sam nodded against Dean’s chest and sniffed again.

Dean waited.

Sam didn’t say anything. He just breathed in that ragged, post-cry way and held onto Dean.

Dean’s chin bumped against the crown of Sam’s head. He pressed his nose to Sam’s hair and breathed in deeply. God.

He squeezed Sam, patting him on the back. “You can tell me anything,” Dean offered, hoping it was the right thing to say, “even if it’s stupid or it sucks.”

Sam didn’t respond right away. When he did, it was so quiet Dean almost didn’t hear it.

“I know.”

“Sammy…”

“Not right now.”

“Okay.” Dean understood that. “Okay. Just try to get some sleep. Or just lay there if you can’t, I’ll keep watch.”

“Okay.”

Dean nodded. He kept rubbing Sam’s back. The smell of Sam was making him sleepy, but he fought to stay awake. He found himself humming, and stopped for a second, cheeks burning, but he was in too deep now. That was a good thing, right?

He kept humming.

It took hours, all the way through sunrise, but Sam finally went totally lax in his arms, breathing coming out deep and even. He twitched in dreams, and Dean whispered things if Sam got agitated. It seemed to work.

Dean didn’t sleep. He was used to it. He listened to the traffic outside, and the small sleep noises Sam made.

He remembered this. He’d been this Dean. And he could do it again.

And in the morning, he’d try even harder. And the next morning, he’d start all over.

Maybe someday, he could stitch the two of them up a little. Maybe he could make things better.

He had Sam again, and that was the biggest blessing the universe could give.

He could at least try.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you guys so much!
> 
> <3


End file.
